


Finding Home

by animeangelriku, Tarek_giverofcookies



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (just in a few sentences; don't get too excited), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Community: Do It With Style Events, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, House Hunting, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nervous Crowley (Good Omens), No Angst, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), Silly, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29391444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animeangelriku/pseuds/animeangelriku, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies
Summary: Crowley’s always thought that the angel is as happy as can be in his bookshop, surrounded by his precious first editions and collection of weird, misprinted Bibles. He knows for certain that Aziraphale definitely prefers his bookshop to Crowley’s flat, which is fair. Crowley doesn’t even like his flat all that much. Not anymore, anyway. Although it’s been better lately—homier, one might say—he would still rather be in the bookshop, too. He figured that if they ever were to decide to live together (not that Crowley ever imagined it, pictured it, constantly thought about it, no sir, and he’ll fervently deny he did), Aziraphale’s home would be their first and only option.Buying a house forthemto live in was never part of the picture.I wanna do that,Crowley thinks all of a sudden.I wanna buy a house with him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 135
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Our Own Side





	Finding Home

**Author's Note:**

> My second and last fic for the DIWS Reverse Bang!! This time with SEVERAL beautiful pieces by the wonderful Tarek, so get ready to feast your eyes on her lovely artwork!! Check out the fantastic banner she did [here](https://tarekgiverofcookies.tumblr.com/post/642498305502429184/animeangelriku-finding-home-crowleys-always), and don't forget to visit her [Tumblr](https://tarekgiverofcookies.tumblr.com/) and give her art some very well-deserved love!!
> 
> My apologies to Tarek. I'm so sorry I couldn't finish this earlier so you could read it beforehand, but I still hope you enjoy it and that I made your pieces justice! <3

Okay, see, here’s the thing. The thing is that Crowley wants to buy a house with Aziraphale.

No, no, rather, we might need to backtrack a little.

One could say that, for all intents and purposes, there’s two things, but one of them is directly derived from the other one, so really, there is only one thing from which the other thing comes from.

So actually, the thing—that is to say, the “original” thing, as it were—is that, at his very core, Crowley is a romantic.

He will deny it to his last breath and bluff and deflect it if one were to bring it up or accuse him of it, but deep down—very, very deep down—Crowley knows this is true. Several of his dreams over the centuries have consisted of him being the dashing hero coming to save his angel, strutting into the scene with a nonchalant, smug smirk and driving off into the sunset with Aziraphale in his arms. If Crowley were to be confronted with this, he would argue that it’s more about him being a James Bond-esque hero than it is about living happily ever after with Aziraphale post-movie-credits, even though anyone who has been around him at any point in the last 6,000 years would know this to be a blatant lie.

(Well, all right, perhaps not entirely a lie, but it certainly isn’t the complete truth, either.)

Realistically, all Crowley has ever wanted is to be with Aziraphale, without any fear or worry, in whatever way possible and whatever that may entail. After botching Armageddon, he figured they would remain friends, perhaps spending a bit more time together, maybe even a brush of hands at some moment or other. As an optimist, his wildest dream was that Aziraphale would no longer pull away from him or say things like “this is purely social” before inviting him into the bookshop for a drink.

He never expected Aziraphale to make the first move, for the angel to gently cup his hand around Crowley’s cheek and pull him in for a kiss.

This, understandably, changed Crowley’s expectations of both their relationship and his role in it.

Now he had options, you see, things that he was allowed (and maybe even encouraged) to do: he could bring Aziraphale pastries and chocolates and flowers and books, he could take him out on dates, he could lay on Aziraphale’s lap while the angel read, he could—

Well, Crowley could do anything, really, including thinking about buying a house with Aziraphale, if he so pleased.

But we’re still getting ahead of ourselves.

Buying a house with Aziraphale is not a thought that comes naturally to Crowley. He has always known that, if he were to have any sort of home, it would be wherever Aziraphale is, whether that meant his flat or the bookshop or some other place altogether. They spend most of their time in the bookshop and in the tiny, modest (and mostly unused) flat above it, where Aziraphale has a bed and some shelves for books he wants to keep solely to himself. Crowley will sometimes go back to his place to make sure his plants are still in line, but it’s not strange for them to occasionally stay there a day or two at a time as well.

It’s here in Crowley’s flat that the thing—that is to say, the thing derived from the original thing—makes its first appearance.

Crowley has been mindlessly watching TV for the last fifteen minutes, blindly flipping through channels while Aziraphale finishes making his cocoa in the kitchen. Crowley is currently half-sprawled on one side of the sofa, but as soon as he hears Aziraphale’s footsteps, he waits for the angel to sit down on the other side of the sofa and reach out for him with the hand that is not holding his mug of cocoa. The moment Crowley feels Aziraphale’s hand on his ankle, he turns his body around so that he can lay his head on the angel’s lap, with Aziraphale’s fingers petting his hair.

It's such a domestic thing for them to do, so disgustingly sappy that Crowley would be embarrassed of how much he likes it, how much of an automatic move it’s become for them, for _him_ , if anyone were to point it out to him. They don’t even have to be looking at each other. Aziraphale touches his ankle to let him know he’s taken his rightful place across from him and Crowley’s body goes without a second thought, like a goddamn Pavlovian dog. He didn’t even like that bell-ringing, conditioning bastard. Bit of a wanker, really.

So Crowley’s head is on Aziraphale’s lap, his gentle fingers caressing his hair, and, truth be told, Crowley is beginning to doze off. He doesn’t even know what’s on TV, doesn’t even care; all he cares about is that Aziraphale is here. That’s all that ever matters, to be honest. What they do or where they are is inconsequential, as long as they’re together.

That thought would also embarrass Crowley, but he’s the only one who knows about it, so he tells his ego and pride to shove it and let him be caressed by the love of his entire existence.

He’s so close to falling headfirst into a deep slumber when he hears Aziraphale say, almost distractedly, “Oh, that is so lovely.”

“Wassat?” Crowley asks, forcing his blinking eyes to stay open.

“Those two young men are purchasing a house together,” Aziraphale says. “Isn’t that lovely, dearest?”

Crowley focuses his attention on the TV on the wall opposite them, an ostentatious thing hanging right in the middle of the wall. It’s showing two men embracing, one of them holding a small metal ring with two keys dangling from it as they both wipe happy tears from their faces. The house they apparently just bought is… okay, for sure, but not what Crowley would call ‘lovely.’ Not that he would call anything ‘lovely,’ but that’s beside the point.

Wait a minute.

“Y’really think so?” Crowley mutters.

“Of course,” the angel answers. “It’s such a wonderful thing, isn’t it?”

“That they bought a house?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale tells him, his tone fond despite Crowley’s slowness. He lets out a contented sigh that Crowley feels down to his very bones. “Don’t you think that’s lovely?”

There’s an emotion in Aziraphale’s voice that Crowley can’t quite make out, and it’s driving him out of his mind. There’s a bit of wistfulness to it, but there’s also… something wishful? Something like jealousy? Envy? Longing?

Does Aziraphale want to buy a house? Does he want _them_ to buy a house?

Holy shit, does Aziraphale want to buy a house with him? The two of them? Buying a house? _Together?_

“Darling?”

“Hm? Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Definitely.”

Crowley can only mumble the rest of his agreement, the gears in his head turning and grinding together annoyingly.

It never occurred to him that Aziraphale might want them to get a place of their own.

Crowley’s always thought that the angel is as happy as can be in his bookshop, surrounded by his precious first editions and collection of weird, misprinted Bibles. He knows for certain that Aziraphale definitely prefers his bookshop to Crowley’s flat, which is fair. Crowley doesn’t even like his flat all that much. Not anymore, anyway. Although it’s been better lately—homier, one might say—he would still rather be in the bookshop, too. He figured that if they ever were to decide to live together (not that Crowley ever imagined it, pictured it, constantly thought about it, no sir, and he’ll fervently deny he did), Aziraphale’s home would be their first and only option.

Buying a house for them to live in was never part of the picture.

_I wanna do that, Crowley thinks all of a sudden. I wanna buy a house with him._

And that is how the thing—that is to say, the one derived from the original thing, which is that Crowley is a romantic—comes to be. That is how Crowley decides that he not only wants to buy a house with Aziraphale, but he is _going_ to buy a house with Aziraphale.

What Crowley doesn’t realize is that, when Aziraphale pointed out how lovely it was for those two young men to buy a house together, the important part of his excitement wasn’t the act of buying a house together, but rather the fact that two _young men_ were allowed to do so.

Aziraphale watched these two lovebirds crying tears of joy after such a big purchase and immediately thought about how wonderful it was that the law permitted it in the first place. There are so many places where they would be criminally, dreadfully punished just for daring to be together, and yet the world keeps moving forward, improving a little bit every day, one small step at a time.

It fills Aziraphale’s heart with happiness and love and _hope_ for the future, and so he can’t help saying out loud, “Oh, that is so lovely,” knowing Crowley will agree. For all his grumbling and snarling, his beautiful demon loves humanity as much as Aziraphale does, and perhaps he is the one most impressed with their inventions and progress.

Even though it appears to a third party that they are having the same conversation, this is not the case at all, and neither Aziraphale nor Crowley realize this.

It is potentially a disaster waiting to happen, a tragedy in the horizon, or maybe a hilarious series of events fuelled by silly misunderstandings and the mishaps of spoken communication and the lack thereof. One can never really know how something is going to turn out until the very end, can they?

Oh, well. At least we have caught up now.

  


* * *

  


All right. Crowley needs a plan.

His first thought is to just miracle a house and the deed and whatever other papers humans have to prove they own their home. It’s ridiculous, really, how many damn papers they need to keep a roof over their heads. Downright hellish, human bureaucracy.

But then he thinks that Aziraphale deserves better. The angel is a being of… questionable tastes, but he has _standards_ , and miracling the house they’re going to live in is not up to those standards. What Aziraphale deserves is for Crowley to visit every possible house he can, to ensure it is worthy of his angel’s time and presence and love. And if there happens to be a little nook where Crowley can nap during long summer days, well, he’s certainly not going to complain.

London, much to Crowley’s chagrin, does not seem to have lots of empty houses readily available to be purchased, so Crowley is forced to extend his scouting area a bit farther than originally considered.

 _A bloody out-of-town getaway,_ his brain provides, and before Crowley can scoff at the thought, his mind adds, quite unhelpfully, _A ROMANTIC out-of-town getaway, if you will._

“I will not!” Crowley hisses to himself, misting his plants a little more forcefully than usual. “There is nothing _romantic_ about it!”

Around him, his plants shrug innocently, their leaves rustling in disagreement. If they had faces, they would be raising a sceptic eyebrow and glancing at each other out of the corners of their eyes. Maybe they already do that. If they have ears to hear Crowley with, who says they don’t have weird, tiny plant-like eyes?

“SHUT IT!” Crowley orders, and they all stand still. _As they should,_ he thinks. Ever since Aziraphale began visiting regularly, the plants have grown stupidly bold and confident in Crowley’s ‘goodness,’ daring to speak out of line and think they know better than Crowley.

He’ll show them.

“Keep at it,” he snarls, “and I will leave every single one of you here to _rot._ ”

He will not sully Aziraphale’s future perfect house with plants that are beneath the very best. If they don’t want to put in the effort, Crowley will just have to get new ones.

The plants’ leaves rustle again, though this time, it is with the fear of Crowley instilled in them for the last few decades. Crowley nods in satisfaction and aggressively finishes misting his inside-garden.

(He knows that, even if he did leave all his plants behind—which he _wouldn’t_ do in the first place—Aziraphale would make sure they all went to another home. Deep down, Crowley would be thankful, despite what his grumbling and protesting might imply. Aziraphale has known him for six thousand years, one ought to give him _some_ credit.)

Right. Scouting.

Tadfield is out of the question. Not that the place isn’t… er, _nice_ , and not that Crowley has anything against it in particular, but he’d rather not live in such close proximity to the young Antichrist, human or not. Besides, small towns like that, where everyone knows one another, tend to latch on to newcomers, and he just _knows_ that Aziraphale would accept every single outing and brunch and _luncheon_ invitation from all their neighbours.

Then again, social gatherings mean opportunities for Crowley to get his quota of low-grade evil wiles. A chair out of place here, someone tripping there, a spill of wine down someone’s incredibly expensive shirt…

No, no. The Antichrist kid would probably cancel out everything he and Aziraphale did, with or without his knowing. Tadfield _is_ out of the question.

Crowley scrolls through listings on his phone. Where would Aziraphale like to live? Would he want a town bustling with life, with people and cars parading on the street right outside? Would he prefer someplace quieter, secluded, away from the busy urban life? Would he like to live by the coast, or would he argue that the nearby humidity would be bad for his precious books?

Well, it _is_ , but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a miracle, just a small added protection.

Crowley shakes his head. He’s getting ahead of himself. What he needs to do first is find the perfect house, which must obviously include at least two things: enough space for all of Aziraphale’s books and maybe one or two rooms that can hold his plants. Crowley’s willing to exchange the rooms for a garden, if the place happens to have one, he’s not _that_ picky.

The first house Crowley finds is a modern monstrosity, even to him. Not only does it have a glass door, but it’s also got _several_ glass walls on the front, which he knows Aziraphale would _hate_ , along with wood panelling that, quite frankly, looks hideous. Crowley stares at the picture for a total of six seconds before closing the tab.

He throws his head back with a dramatic groan. This is going to be much more difficult than he thought.

  


* * *

  


Okay, all right. This house has potential.

The ad wasn’t all that impressive, in Crowley’s not so humble opinion, but he thought he could give it a chance. It’s not as big or ‘modern’ as other places he has seen, which might actually work in his favour. Aziraphale is more old-fashioned, after all—he’ll like something with exterior brickwork and a fenced, grassy backyard more than glass walls and ugly wood panelling, _surely_.

Crowley gets out of the parked Bentley and whistles.

“Doesn’t look half bad in person,” he says. “And look, there’s even a garage for you.”

The Bentley rumbles in disapproval.

“Aw, c’mon, love,” he mutters, patting the bonnet of the car in a soothing manner. “You know I’d never hide you in a garage.”

The Bentley’s engine quiets… somewhat. Crowley hopes she won’t leave him in the middle of Dartford for an hour just to get back at him. His dear car is very cooperative when he needs her to, but she’s got… quite a temper on her as well. Ever since Adam brought her back, he’s tried not to push her buttons too much; figuratively, of course.

Crowley is meant to be joining a tour given by the house’s owners, who are standing at the doorstep in front of the group they’ll be guiding, so he makes his way through the grassy front yard and smirks at the not-so-subtle side glance he gets from one of the other tourists.

Then he steps onto the gravel path to the door and yelps in pain.

Crowley stumbles back onto the grass, biting back a groan and a curse.

“Is everything okay back there?” asks one of the young women who owns the house. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Fine!” Crowley replies, trying not to hop between his feet like an idiot. He smiles charmingly at the people staring worriedly at him and leans on the foot that is not burning until everyone turns back to the lovely pair of young women in front of them.

“Well,” the other one starts again. “As you will see soon, there’s ample room for a swing set, games of tag…”

Crowley winces to himself, swinging his foot while he waits for the pain to sort of pass. Why did that hurt him so much? Why did it _burn_? Crowley doesn’t think he’s ever felt this kind of—

Wait a minute.

He has. Once. Eighty years ago, when he walked down the aisle of a church.

But it can’t _possibly…_

“My grandfather spent two and a half years building this house by himself,” says one of the young women, slowly leading the group of tourists through the door. “When he was finally done, he had a priest bless this place to bring his family good luck!”

Well then.

Crowley turns on his heel and strides back towards the Bentley.

“Oh, are you leaving, sir?” someone asks.

“Sorry, wrong house!” he calls over his shoulder, climbing inside the car and slamming the door behind him.

Figures. It figures that the ad would not mention a single thing about the house being _blessed_ , of all things. Would it have been too much to ask? ‘Unique exterior brickwork, warm tile floors, and the entire building was blessed by a priest!’ 

“Let’s get out of here, beautiful,” he says, petting the dashboard, and the Bentley’s engine purrs heartily.

She does leave him stranded in the middle of the road on their way to Mayfair, but only for ten minutes. Crowley lets it slide without much complaint. It’s the least he owes her.

  


* * *

  


Crowley has been away for a few days now.

This is, of course, nothing to be worried about. Just because their relationship has evolved from social/platonic to romantic does not mean that they need to spend all of their time together, nor does it mean that Crowley needs to tell Aziraphale where he is at any given moment.

It’s just that… well. Aziraphale misses him.

He’s not embarrassed to admit it. He misses Crowley, and he wishes Crowley were here. Aziraphale can’t even focus on trying to read, wondering if he should call the demon or wait until Crowley makes an appearance. Is Crowley waiting for him to call him, visit him? He supposes he’s _allowed_ to now, given the new turn in their relationship, but would Crowley think that’s too much? Has he been away because he wants some space, perhaps?

Just then, the bookshop’s phone rings, and Aziraphale takes a deep breath to calm himself down. He is in no mood to entertain customers, and he really _would_ like to settle in with a book and maybe a nice cup of tea to go with it.

“I’m afraid we are quite closed,” he says into the phone as soon as he picks it up.

“No, you’re not,” Crowley’s voice replies, and Aziraphale can’t help the relieved smile that overcomes his mouth. “But I’m sure you’ve got other, more important things to do, so I’ll pretend I believe you.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says, a bit too excitedly. “My dear, how wonderful to hear your voice.”

On the other end of the line, he can hear Crowley stammering whatever words he wants to say, resulting in the sounds of several unfinished syllables that Aziraphale finds terribly endearing.

“Y-yeah,” Crowley mutters. “Sorry ‘bout that. Been kind of busy.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale pulls up his chair and gets comfortable. “Have you been wiling away, you fiend?”

“Always,” Crowley tells him, and Aziraphale can hear his smirk, and he wants so very badly to kiss him. Then Crowley clears his throat, and his voice grows… nervous. “So, uh. Any plans this afternoon, angel?”

“Well, I was thinking about settling down with a copy of Whitman’s _Leaves of Grass_ ,” he replies with a smile. “I was also considering making some tea.”

He’s about to add, _You could drop by, if you’d like. I could read out loud to you. I know Whitman is not your favourite, though, so you can choose something else that’s more to your liking,_ but he bites the words back. He has thought about reading out loud to Crowley for so long, and yet it’s not something they have ever discussed. He doesn’t even know if Crowley would like that.

“Oh, well, I’d hate to pull you away from your books,” Crowley says, but there’s amusement in his tone, so Aziraphale eagerly awaits his next response. “But I was… _well—_ ” He extends the word, pronouncing it like it has eleven letters instead of four. “—I was, er, thinking, if you… if you’d want to…”

He pauses, and the following question is spoken in such a rush that Aziraphale needs a minute to decipher it.

_“If you’d wanna go house-hunting with me.”_

House-hunting.

Crowley wants Aziraphale to go house-hunting with him.

“Oh!” he exclaims. “Oh, my dear! Are you looking for a new place?”

Aziraphale doesn’t know why that makes him so happy. Crowley’s flat is… it serves its purpose, it really does, but it’s not exactly _comfortable_. Although Aziraphale has no objections to spending a day or two there so he can marvel at the beauty and lushness of Crowley’s (poor, terrified) plants, the flat does still feel a bit empty and cold sometimes. The fact that Crowley is now looking for a new place to call his own is wonderful! And even more wonderful is that he wants _Aziraphale_ to go with him!

He knows Crowley prefers style over comfort, so going along with him means Aziraphale can make sure his darling picks someplace that is comfortable enough to live in while also meeting Crowley’s own standards for an acceptable home.

“Er, yeah,” Crowley answers, but he still sounds strangely nervous. “Is… I mean, ‘s that okay?”

“Of course it is!” Aziraphale cries. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“’Cause it’s… ‘s a big decision, innit? You sure you’re all right with it?”

Aziraphale frowns slightly to himself. It’s not like Crowley needs his permission, but he appreciates the question nonetheless. He can’t help the thought that maybe Crowley wants his opinion because he expects to have Aziraphale visit him, and warmth courses through him, bringing a blush to his cheeks.

“Yes, my dear, I’m perfectly all right with it! And I would love to go with you!”

“Right,” Crowley mutters, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. But then it changes to the bright, cocky charm that comes so naturally to him, and Aziraphale holds back a lovesick giggle. “Okay! Great! Shall I pick you up in an hour?”

“Yes, yes, absolutely. Oh! I’ll bring some biscuits, in case we get peckish! Would you like me to bring a couple of egg and cress sandwiches as well?”

He knows they’re Crowley’s favourite sandwiches, although he is not a fan of sandwiches in general. There is not much his darling eats, but Aziraphale knows each and every item on that short list.

“We’re not going on a picnic, angel,” Crowley argues.

“No, but we’ve got a busy day ahead of us! We need to keep our strength!”

“Angel,” he says in that tone he uses when he wants to make a point. “We’re supernatural entities. We don’t _need_ to keep our strength.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” Aziraphale says with a shake of his head, despite knowing Crowley can’t see it. He’ll be able to hear it, at the very least. “I will not have you go hungry during our afternoon endeavours.”

Crowley trips and stumbles over a response, and at the end, he simply mumbles, “See you in an hour, angel,” and hangs up.

Aziraphale could miracle the egg and cress sandwiches, but Crowley deserves for them to be handmade. He’ll make them himself, pack his best biscuits, and make some tea to bring along. Just because they aren’t going on a picnic doesn’t mean Aziraphale can’t pretend like they are.

  


* * *

  


Crowley tries to convince himself that this was the best way to handle the situation.

After the third house he went to left him hissing in disgust, he realised he couldn’t be completely sure whether Aziraphale would like a place or not unless he was _there_. He could tell himself he knew Aziraphale more than the angel knew himself, but he could still completely mess this up.

The truth, though Crowley will be damned to admit it, is that he’s scared.

The greater part of him still doesn’t believe that he… that they get to have this ridiculously domestic, romantic relationship. That they get to have their happy ending. That he gets to _be_ with Aziraphale like he dreamed of for six thousand bloody years. Ever since Aziraphale first kissed him, Crowley has been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and he’s terrified that the shoe happens to be wrong-house-shaped.

He can’t stand the thought of Aziraphale leaving him. He can’t screw this up, he _can’t_.

Crowley’s starting to regret having picked this house when he has to leave the Bentley in the middle of a dirt road so they can then _walk_ to it among the woods, but Aziraphale is so excited, his eyes bright and his smile annoyingly beautiful. Crowley wants to kiss it off his face.

 _Now’s not the time,_ he reminds himself, settling for reaching out to grab Aziraphale’s hand.

The angel squeezes his hand back immediately, his love pouring from the touch. Crowley’s ears burn.

“Tell me more about this house, dear,” Aziraphale says, beginning to tug him along the path marked by hand-crafted wooden signposts. “What made you choose it as a possible contender?”

“It’s in the middle of nowhere,” Crowley answers. “Thought you might like the privacy.”

Aziraphale gasps, and the sound should not be as adorable as it is. “Aw, Crowley!”

Crowley mutters a retort under his breath, but Aziraphale only grips his hand tighter.

When they get to the end of the path, the angel gasps once more, and Crowley nearly does the same. It was one thing to look at pictures of it, but it’s a completely different thing to stand in front of it.

A wide gravel path is flanked by lush, sun-spotted hemlocks, poplars, maples, hickory trees, orchids, ferns, and several others whose names Crowley cannot, for the life of him, remember at the moment. The house itself is, truth be told, kind of a marvel, the sort of thing that becomes a tourist attraction with signs that read, _DO NOT CLIMB THE CASCADES._

What struck Crowley about this house was that it was built on top of a waterfall, although it almost feels like the waterfall is coming _from_ the house. Sat on top of the rushing water are stone walls and concrete terraces, with walking paths winding around the entire place like a big dipper.

“Oh,” Aziraphale exhales as he and Crowley near the entrance. “Oh, my. Crowley, this… this is so beautiful!”

He’s being sincere, Crowley can tell, but there’s also something reluctant about his tone, like he’s trying to only say the good things he’s thinking despite having a few negative opinions as well.

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, because Aziraphale’s right. “But it’s a bit much, too, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale turns to look at him, biting his lip. There it is. Just like Crowley suspected.

“I mean…” The angel tilts his head one way and then the other. “I do admit it seems… gratuitously big, which isn’t necessarily bad, of course, I’m not saying it is, but it does feel like the kind of place meant for a large group of people, doesn’t it?”

“Yep,” says Crowley, popping the last letter. “So. Do you still want to go take a look?”

“It would be dreadfully rude not to, wouldn’t it?” Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “We’ve already come all the way here, and I’m sure the real estate agent is waiting for us—”

Crowley snaps his fingers. “Not anymore. He’ll have forgotten all about this visit and suddenly remember he’s missing his daughter’s rugby game.”

“But he will make it in time to watch her team win the game, right?” Aziraphale asks, staring at him with those sad puppy eyes that make Crowley roll his eyes, knowing he’ll do whatever his angel wants him to do.

“ _Yes_ , angel,” he tells him with another snap of his fingers. “It’ll be the girl’s first win, and her father will be there to see it.”

“Oh, my love.” Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s arm and leans against him, mercifully saying nothing else. Crowley’s glad he didn’t really want to see the house, because he doesn’t know how he would’ve done it with the angel clinging to him like he never wants to let him go.

 _Makes two of us,_ Crowley thinks as they follow the path back to the Bentley.

  


* * *

  


The first thing Aziraphale notices is the garage on the side of the quaint white house. He’s about to mention it to Crowley as a point in the house’s favour when he catches his demon patting the roof of the Bentley.

“Don’t worry, darling,” he says to her. “You’re not going in there.”

The Bentley’s engine roars once and then goes complacently silent.

Aziraphale blinks, surprised. He had no idea that the car wasn’t a fan of garages.

 _She obviously wouldn’t be,_ he thinks to himself. _Vain little thing, like her owner, wants to be admired and looked at and told how beautiful she is._

He glances at Crowley out of the corner of his eye and smiles fondly.

The real estate agent—a sweet young woman who holds a clipboard to her chest with a deadly nervous grip—greets them at the front red door at the end of a curvy, paved path. “Mr. Crowley, Mr. Fell, welcome! My name is Jill Greene.”

She shakes their hands and walks them inside. The house has two stories connected by a staircase in the living room, which includes a wide, open sitting area and a small stone fireplace, along with an open entrance to the kitchen and a small hallway that leads to a half-bathroom.

“As you can see, this entire floor is covered in wall-to-wall carpeting,” Ms. Greene is telling Crowley. “Except for the kitchen, which has linoleum flooring so there won’t be any accidents!”

Rather than following them as they move towards the bedroom on the other side of the house, Aziraphale goes up the stairs. There is a small hallway connecting two rooms on opposite sides, which also seem to be bedrooms, though one of them looks like it’s meant for children, what with the colourful walls and small bookshelves and drawers and the round lamp on the ceiling and the three circular windows facing the front of the house. When Aziraphale kneels to touch the carpet, it’s soft and fluffy, a gentle green colour that gives the room the appearance of an enchanted forest.

This house is cosy, and it feels very much loved, and goodness knows Crowley could do with some splashes of colour in his life, and as opposed to a few ones they’ve seen, this is not in the middle of nowhere, so Crowley could interact with other people and also perform some low-grade wiles like gluing coins to the sidewalk and watch people try to pick them up from the living room window.

It’s not Aziraphale’s first choice, but that is not what matters. What matters is what Crowley thinks of the place, and if he likes it and decides that it’ll be his new home, Aziraphale will bring him more biscuits and egg and cress sandwiches, and he will make enough for Crowley’s neighbours in case he makes some new friends, and he will gladly sit on the sofa and run his fingers through Crowley’s hair while his darling watches the telly.

As long as Crowley is happy, Aziraphale will follow him anywhere. 

When he walks back downstairs, Ms. Greene is near the front door, talking to someone on the phone, while Crowley stands in the middle of the living room, hands in the so-called pockets of his trousers. Aziraphale joins him and is almost overcome with love at the slight twitch of Crowley’s mouth, at the way his expression softens.

“What do you think?” Aziraphale asks, reaching out to hold Crowley’s hands in his own.

Crowley looks around the living room. Even though Aziraphale can’t see his eyes, he does notice that his jaw is set, like he’s gritting his teeth together. Aziraphale resists the urge to cup his palm around Crowley’s cheek and remind him that it hurts his canines. 

“Eh,” Crowley mumbles with a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder. “It’s…” Then he turns back to Aziraphale, his jaw still tense. “What’d you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale confesses. “It’s a lovely house, and I’m certain it will make a young man or a sweet elderly couple or a nice family very happy. I’m just… not sure that…”

He doesn’t know how to say that he doesn’t think Crowley will be content in this place. If Crowley’s looking for his approval, he doesn’t want to be the reason his beloved walks away from a place he finds perfectly acceptable.

Crowley squeezes his hands.

“You don’t see us watching _Golden Girls_ on that hideous sofa, do you?” he teases, the smirk Aziraphale adores beginning to loosen his tense jaw, and Aziraphale chuckles.

“Well, I don’t see me watching anything on the telly, if I’m honest,” he replies as he interlaces their fingers together. It brings him such unbridled joy to know Crowley pictures the two of them even while choosing where _he_ is going to be living.

Perhaps, in the future, they could even… choose someplace they can _both_ inhabit.

“Neither do I,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale allows himself to exhale in relief.

They thank Ms. Greene and wish her a lovely evening. Aziraphale makes sure to send a small blessing her way, giving her a gentle boost of confidence for her next house showing. Crowley raises an eyebrow at him, but he just reaches across the seat of the Bentley and grabs Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale can’t help himself. He tugs on their entwined fingers and kisses Crowley’s knuckles.

The Bentley swerves violently before righting herself in the blink of an eye.

Crowley’s ears are pink all the way back to the bookshop, and when a giggle escapes Aziraphale, the demon glares at him.

Aziraphale lets it slide. It’s the least he can do, really.

  


* * *

  


Crowley could not have found a creepier house if all the legions of Hell had chased him down and forced him to.

Aziraphale seems to think the same, because they both remain standing by the Bentley, staring at the house like it will come alive any moment and start singing.

Not to say that the house isn’t… _nice_ , as loathe as Crowley is to admit it, but it is too nice, veering into uncanny territory that, half a year ago, he would’ve tried to pass off as his own accomplishment for a commendation. The house looks like it came straight out of a kids’ picture book, one of those that reads as a condescending wanker trying to teach some bloody moral lesson about sharing or recycling or not chopping down trees.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, fiddling with his hands. “I hope you find no offence to this, but… did you _miracle_ this house?”

“I didn’t!” he cries, raising his hands defensively. “Honest! Demon’s honour!” He can’t resist the twitchy smirk curling the corner of his mouth, especially when Aziraphale shoots him an affronted that somehow still manages to come off as fond, and Crowley’s twitchy smirk doesn’t feel as powerful anymore.

The little house is made of brick, with a stone chimney happily puffing out smoke at the top of the tiled roof. Leading up to the door is a paved path surrounded by rocks lining the small front yard, which has a tree guarding the house on either side. Crowley would not be surprised if they walked inside and found a girl baking a pie while animals clean the place.

“It is kinda creepy, isn’t it,” he mutters, already knowing Aziraphale’s answer.

They climb back inside the Bentley and drive to Crowley’s flat.

  


* * *

  


Aziraphale’s first thoughts on the tenth house they visit is that it reminds him of a cosy little hole in the ground, with its wooden outside and the cute round door and the wooden fence. He cannot imagine Crowley liking such a place, but if he does, Aziraphale will have no trouble visiting and staying the night and perhaps bring over a book, or two, or fifty. The shrubs and flowers decorating the windows are a beautiful touch, and Aziraphale can already hear Crowley yelling at them to grow better.

“Angel!” Crowley says before Aziraphale can cross the front door. “’m gonna take a look at the backyard!”

“Very well, dearest!”

The demon mumbles something under his breath, and Aziraphale bites his lip to contain a laugh.

The inside only cements the angel’s opinions. Oh, it’s such a lovely house, with rustic floors and furniture and a bedroom and Aziraphale’s mind can’t help but wander, imagining them sharing this place and filling it with trinkets and Aziraphale’s books and Crowley’s plants and… Well, it’s not perfect, but then again, what place is? Doesn’t it become perfect once it is lived in, once its owners have claimed it as their own?

Oh, Heaven’s sake, they’re here to see whether it’s a right fit for Crowley, not for them to choose a place _together_. Aziraphale must remind himself of that instead of jumping to assumptions that might not even be true.

 _Wouldn’t it be marvellous, though?_ he wonders with a soft sigh, running his fingers through the shelves that seemed to protrude from the walls. _If we were to live together?_

He remembers the show he caught a glimpse of on the telly a few weeks ago, with those two young men buying a house. Aziraphale suddenly pictures himself and Crowley in place of the young men, embracing as Crowley holds the keys to their new home, the home they’re going to live in together, sharing their lives with each other and starting one together, together, together, _together—_

“Oh, it would be perfect for us to live in a place of our own, wouldn’t it?” he muses out loud.

“What?”

Aziraphale turns on his feet so fast, he’s afraid he’s left a mark on the floor.

Crowley stands on the doorway, one foot in and one foot out, his mouth slightly parted as he stares at Aziraphale with wide eyes. His sunglasses have slid an inch down his nose.

“Um.”

“Angel,” Crowley says. “ _What_ did you just say?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale mutters, suddenly feeling very foolish. “I… I apologise, dear, I— I thought you were out in the backyard—”

“I was,” Crowley replies. “’m not anymore.”

Aziraphale huffs and tries to get back some semblance of control. “I see that, yes.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and the angel almost stops breathing. He’s usually called ‘angel’ by his darling, so whenever Crowley calls him by his name, it awakens something in Aziraphale, something deep and familiar and intimate that makes him want to curl into the demon’s arms, makes him want to cling to him and never let go. “All this time— What do you think we’ve been _doing_?”

“Looking for a new place for you?” Aziraphale doesn’t meant for it to come out as a question, but Crowley’s words have struck a nerve, and he fears he has completely misunderstood the situation, though he doesn’t know whether that’s good or bad.

They stand in silence for what feels like an eternity—and Aziraphale has lived for six thousand years, he knows how that feels like.

And then Crowley’s snorting, laughing, his head thrown back, and Aziraphale blushes with both fondness and disbelief.

“Wh— I’m sorry, my dear, but _what_ , exactly, is so funny!”

“Did—” Crowley’s still chuckling, his grin beautiful and brilliant and frustratingly kissable. “Did you think we were house-hunting for _me_?”

“I assumed perhaps you wanted a change of scenery!” Aziraphale retorts with another huff.

“Didn’t you tell me weeks ago that it’d be _lovely_ for us to buy a house together?” Crowley prompts.

Aziraphale searches his memory. He would _definitely_ remember having told Crowley that, but he can’t find any instance, let alone one in the past couple of weeks, that fits that description. Lovely. Buying a house. Together.

He sees a flash of that show on the telly, the one with the two young men, and gasps.

It is here that Aziraphale realises exactly what has happened. He goes over their small conversation in his head and correctly figures out that he and Crowley were talking about different yet related things, while believing that they were on the same page.*

(*If he had paid the smallest smidge of attention more, this would have been resolved from the very beginning, although the same could be said about Crowley. Then again, in that case, we wouldn’t be here right now, watching a pair of beings that are, respectively, ethereal and occult discovering the nuances of the spoken word, like they haven’t been witnessing it for the past six thousand years.

After all, hindsight is always 20/20.)

The fact that Crowley’s grin falls and his eyes widen tells Aziraphale his darling has come to the same conclusion, but he is taking it much harder than Aziraphale.

“Did… Did you not… Isn’t that what you meant?” he asks, and he clutches the doorway like he will run away any minute now, and Aziraphale can no longer stand to be away from him for one more second.

“No!” he cries and winces at the furrow of Crowley’s brow. “Oh, my dear!” He rushes to his demon and takes his hands in his own, lifting them between their chests. “It is not what I meant then, no, but you heard me just now! While I truly believed you were looking for a place for yourself, I desperately wished I could be a part of it, that you would _let_ me be a part of it. My darling, I want nothing more than to live with you.”

At this, Crowley presses his mouth into a thin line, and Aziraphale is half a breath away from kissing him and petting his hair and telling him how much he loves him when Crowley says, his voice damp, “Angel. I’ve been looking for a place that _you_ like.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says with a little smile. “Dearest, I’ve been looking for a place that suits _you_.”

In the blink of an eye, they’re laughing almost pathetically, gasping for air and clutching each other to stand upright. How do they do this? How do they keep misunderstanding each other and jumping to conclusions even while they’re _talking_ to each other?

“So all this time,” Crowley coughs, “we’ve been searching for a house together while only thinking of the other one?”

“It does seem like that,” Aziraphale agrees, wrapping his arms around Crowley and feeling his demon’s arms snake around his back.

“Cancelling each other out, huh?”

He chuckles once more and curls into Crowley’s chest. “We do seem to have a knack for it.”

“We gotta work on our communication skills, angel.”

“That we do, my love.”

With this new knowledge, they explore the little, cosy house with their hands held between them, pointing out things they think the other will like. There’s a skylight opposite the bedroom, where Crowley could sunbathe during the summer. The kitchen has an isle and two stools where Aziraphale pictures them having breakfast or lunch, his thumb caressing the back of Crowley’s palm. The backyard is big enough for Crowley to bring his plants over and terrorize them in brand new soil, maybe even along some new additions.

And yet, Aziraphale is still not convinced. He feels, a tad selfishly, that he and Crowley deserve better than this, a house that reflects their journey into the new world around them, a journey forged together through six thousand years.

“Could work,” Crowley says softly, his voice full of thinly veiled denial.

“It could,” Aziraphale relents.

“But it doesn’t, does it.”

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand. How he loves his demon, who has always been brave enough to voice his not-so-angelic thoughts for him. “Shall we keep looking for our new home, dear?”

He gleefully watches the tips of Crowley’s ears go pink, the blush on Crowley’s cheeks nearly matching the colour of his gorgeous hair. His demon simply tugs him out of the house and back to the Bentley, and Aziraphale goes willingly.

  


* * *

  


Crowley knows this is going to be their house as soon as he gets out of the car and sees it in front of him. He doesn’t know what it is about the cottage, whether it’s the hedge circling the front yard or the rounded double gates guarding the stone path to the door or the tree standing tall and proud next to it or the façade itself, with its sort of mismatched architecture and brick chimney and differently-shaped windows—whatever it is, it calls out to Crowley in the same way the Bentley did before he acquired her, except this beckoning is stronger, somehow, feels deeper.

Maybe that’s because Aziraphale is gaping at the cottage like he feels the exact same way.

“Oh,” he exhales, the hand that is not holding Crowley’s pressed to his chest. “Oh, Crowley… I have a _very_ good feeling about this place.”

“Yeah,” Crowley mumbles as Aziraphale walks them through the stone path.

He does not listen to anything the real estate agent tells them. He knows just by Aziraphale’s energy—which is to say, the love and adoration and happiness pouring from him in waves, it’s a downright miracle the man doesn’t notice anything odd about him—that the angel already loves this place, that he’s just letting the agent talk out of politeness and not because he needs to be convinced.

The bedroom upstairs _screams_ ‘Aziraphale,’ with its soft, fluffy looking four-poster bed and rustic bedside tables, separated from a bigger room by a full bathroom with a clawfoot bathtub that Crowley intends to miracle larger the minute the real estate agent (a Mr. Bailey? Bigley? It starts with a B, Crowley’s sure of it) leaves them alone.

Crowley himself does not need much space. He’s content with having a bed to sleep in, a sofa to sprawl himself on his angel’s lap, and a room where he can store their alcohol. He has no problem with Aziraphale taking the rest of the cottage to himself, turning one of the rooms into a study and the room next to the bedroom into his private collection and filling the living room with whatever trinkets he wants.

“Would you like to see the backyard?” Mr. B asks them, showing them to the half-door connecting it to the kitchen. “The garden has seen better days, but it’s nothing a green thumb can’t fix!”

 _Or some well-placed terrorizing,_ Crowley thinks to himself with a smirk. He glances out the half-door and knows exactly what will get those plants and vines and thickets back into shape. His own plants will love carrying the weight of perfection with such a varied garden.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Bigley,” Aziraphale says when he catches Crowley’s expression. “We’ve seen enough.”

“Oh.” The man’s smile falters for a blink before it’s back in its place. “So—”

“We’ll take it,” Crowley declares, and Aziraphale entwines their fingers.

  


* * *

  


It takes them a week and a half to move to their new cottage and three days to start living in it. It would’ve taken them much less time, but Aziraphale insisted he wanted them to do the entire process the human way: pack all their things, hire a moving service, make a trip out of it. But after nine days, Aziraphale found he no longer wanted to wait for them to get to the cottage; he wanted to start living in the same space as his demon _right this second_ , and wasn’t that why they had an infinity of miracles at their disposal now that they had frightened their ex-Head Offices off their backs?

He has more patience when it comes to unpacking their things and setting everything where it will be going from now on. Crowley helps him fill the room next to their bedroom (their bedroom, _their bedroom_ , they share a bedroom now!) with his misprinted Bibles and first editions, while the rest of his books go to the study downstairs, which, Aziraphale notices, Crowley has miracled to be bigger than it seems.

“Dearest,” Aziraphale tells him, kissing the snake mark on his temple. “You didn’t have to.”

“Hngh,” Crowley replies. “Wassss nothing.”

“Thank you, my love.”

“ _Ngk._ ”

On the third day, Aziraphale helps Crowley move his potted plants to the garden outside, their gloved hands and knees covered in dirt and beads of sweat running down the back of their necks. When they’re done, Aziraphale noses Crowley’s jaw and kisses a spot behind his ear, and Crowley snaps them clean and drags him back inside.

The first day of the rest of their new life together, Aziraphale finishes making tea in their kitchen while Crowley’s watching TV in the living room. The angel sits on the other side of the sofa, pats Crowley’s ankle, and guides his darling to lay his head on his lap so he can run the fingers of his hand not holding his cup of tea through the demon’s hair.

“What are you watching, my dear?”

“ _Golden Girls_ ,” Crowley answers.

In their new cottage, in their new home in the coast of Eastbourne, just a few miles away from the sea, Aziraphale drinks his tea and lets out a quiet, contented hum.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hoped you all liked this, and if you did, please consider leaving kudos and a comment!
> 
> Also feel free to check out my [Tumblr](https://animeangelriku.tumblr.com/) and come talk to me on Twitter, both my ["regular" account](https://twitter.com/animeangelriku) and my [NSFW one!](https://twitter.com/animedemonriku)


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